


What Follows

by nightabsentia



Category: Rammstein
Genre: But I Do Believe in Happy Endings, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fall of the Berlin Wall, Fear and Denial, Feeling B era, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Philosophy, Political upheaval, Porn Watching, Questioning Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26670718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightabsentia/pseuds/nightabsentia
Summary: Like experiencing déjà vu, or seeing a passing stranger that you swear you once knew but can’t place a name to. The kinds of phenomena that make you stop in your tracks and whip your head around looking for things you feel that you’ve missed.Paul discovers and comes to terms with his sexuality in the months leading up to the fall of the Berlin Wall, 1989.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake, Richard Kruspe/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Comments: 17
Kudos: 29





	What Follows

**Author's Note:**

> Some real research went into this! HUGE shout out to GwendolinFairfax for helping me with some historical and cultural details, and to fouroux for introducing me to the film that plays in the end. Also to Arrestzelle, for being a huge cheerleader and the reason why I really finished this anyway. 
> 
> See notes for research!

The television becomes less of moving pictures and more of moving color as Paul begins to feel himself tire from the weight of his day, having to fight to keep his eyes open. The station they’re tuned into has been showing re-runs of the Olympics that had taken place approximately a year before, and they had both been invested in the women’s gymnastics, focusing in on the athletes from their country doing them proud in taking home a bronze and a silver. Until the desire to sleep began to gnaw at him. He looks over at Tatjana, and yes, it’s gnawing at her too, who lies next to him with her feet on his lap, and he can see that she looks like she’s struggling to stay awake as well. He figures with the shape they’re both in that they might as well call it a night.

Paul places a light touch on her bare ankle, and she lifts her head to look at him in response, brushes her wild red waves behind her ear. “Hey,” she mumbles, voice thick with fatigue.

“Hey,” he breathes the word heavily, imagining that he sounds much the same. “I think I’m ready to go to bed.”

Tatjana nods in agreement and stands up, grinding the heel of her palm into one of her eyes. Paul starts towards in the linen closet in the hallway to collect bedmaking materials for a night on the couch, and since he’s a regular in the apartment, he has a small pile she’s designated for his nights over on the bottom shelf. He pulls out a pillow with a green case, a white blanket that Tatjana stole from the hospital from her most recent asthma attack to lay over the couch, and a patchwork quilt made from old cotton sweaters that was her birthday gift from Richard.

After Tatjana flicks the television off, she begins to walk away, to head in the direction of her bedroom, until she pauses after Paul passes by her. She turns and begins to watch as Paul makes quick work of tucking the white blanket over the back pillows, into the seat cushions, to drape over the front. He expects her to tell him goodnight and to sleep well, as he is certainly a guest that needs no support and assistance, but she instead lingers in the entryway of the living room, leaning against the jamb post and crossing her arms. There’s something expectant in her demeanor, the way she studies him with heavy eyes as he moves to unfold the quilt and shake it open, the way that she holds her bottom lip in her teeth.

It’s not something he finds odd or concerning, but something worth asking her about, and he does, questioning her as he undoes his ponytail, “Everything okay?” 

Her expression brightens a bit, eyes widening, and she releases her lower lip to turn her mouth into a light grin. Assurance that nothing is wrong. “Yeah I’m fine,” she begins, the inherent promise of an explanation to come, and she takes a moment to pause, and even to Paul it looks as though she’s trying to assemble the necessary words. Her brow furrows, and she briefly avoids looking at him, instead glancing down at the hardwood, as if her next steps are written there.

Yet, before he can prompt her with encouragement to continue, she’s collected herself enough to go forward. Tatjana straightens herself, focuses her eyes right on his, any sense of hesitation gone, and she carefully asks, “Would you like to come to bed with me?”

He blinks at her. “But I just made the couch up,” he says, offering a grand sweep of his hand towards his set up. She’s never asked this before, not even when they first met and were getting to know each other, and he’s been content with the routine they’ve had when he visits. It’s strange to him that all of a sudden, Tatjana’s offering her bed when he’s slept on this couch every time he’s come over for the past year. She huffs and rolls her eyes, and he knows he’s missed something but he doesn’t quite get what. 

Closing the distance between them with a couple of steps, she speaks again, her tone low and even. “Paul,” she says, almost stern, eyes rounded and soft. She drums her fingers against her flesh, and tightens her crossed arms across her chest. “Read between the lines here. Come to bed with me.”

Oh. 

Paul thinks he understands now. Though admittedly, as much as he likes Tatjana, he can’t. Not because of anything Tatjana is or isn’t – she’s kind, and funny, and bright, and interesting, and certainly beautiful, but he can’t. The ability to offer himself to a woman doesn’t exist in him, and it never has, for as long as he can remember. He didn’t mean to lead her on or misguide her – they’ve been hanging out more, but not because he wanted something from her, but because he enjoys being in her presence, listening to her thoughts and ideas, her stories and witticisms. Fuck. He feels bad. 

“Tatjana,” he sighs, and he’s put in the exact position that he can’t stand to be in, at an impasse with the people he cares for at the intersection of his own wellbeing and theirs. Hearing her name in such a low-spirited manner causes her face to fall, and he hates to do this, he really does, especially to her.

“Tatjana, I can’t,” Paul says, softly, gently, because he doesn’t want to hurt her, but he knows he is anyway, and Tatjana’s brow knits and her head visibly recoils and it’s as though this was not the answer she was at least hoping for, at most anticipating. His insides twist in their anxiety, and a sharp cold pulls in his chest and spine. 

“Oh. Um,” she hums, and she looks away from him, turns her gaze to find a distraction in the nearby kitchen while she plucks together her response. Reflexively, she takes a step back, like she wants to leave, and Paul would let her, but she doesn’t move any further. He feels awful, he really does, to cause her this embarrassment. Whatever response comes, he’ll take. It’s the least he can do, shoulder parts of the burden that he places upon others. It’s the least he can do. 

“I swear to God it’s not you, I swear,” Paul then says, and Tatjana looks his direction once again, cocks her head, steels herself, and her expression is stoic, defensive, eyes narrowed. Almost as though she’s readying herself. For a lie. For the truth. For whatever Paul chooses to give her. Paul gives her what he can without giving her too much. “It’s something to do with me. I can’t – it’s, like,” he pauses, splays his hands out like he’s pleading. “It’s not you. It’s – I’m just not looking to do that with anybody right now.”

Quirking a brow, she looks less upset and the defensive hardness that shapes her expression becomes accented with something else – vexation? Bafflement? “What do you mean?” Tatjana presses, her voice austere in its tone, level. There’s an indignation that he feels coming from her, and it’s his most basic reflex, to start gnawing on his shoulder to get out of the entrapment he finds himself in. 

Paul’s never been above lying, and it’s what he resorts to in this moment. “It’s just not something I’m interested in doing. With anybody, really. It’s nothing personal.” It’s all that he feel he can offer, and he hopes that it’s enough for her. That she’ll take it at the face value, and not think less of him or of herself. 

Paul knows what he actually means, but it’s not something he’s ever told anybody else, or even said to himself when he’s alone. As though it would have the power of a curse if spoken aloud. He’s not even sure how to assemble the words in his language to get across this idea, this feeling. And well, he’s not about to try now. With anyone else, his inclination would be to get angry, guarded, and tell them that he doesn’t have to tell them shit about his business, but Tatjana is entitled to something softer, gentler. Lying, in the most merciful way.

Tatjana seems to take the explanation without much fuss. She nods at him, looks down at her feet as she tries to think if she wants to offer a response or not, but then settles to meet his eyes for a moment to give some soft-spoken parting words wishing him a good night. And before he knows it, Tatjana flips her long red waves over her shoulders and pads into her room, where moments later he hears the door click shut with a finality. 

He clenches his fists.

-

Paul wakes up at the darkest point in the night, badly in need of a piss and a cigarette. Staring at what he can see of the ceiling of his room that the streetlights outside his window illuminates, he blinks himself awake for a few moments before he gets up. He grabs the green sweater hung over the back of his desk chair and throws it on before tucking his cigarettes and lighter into his right pocket.

As he trods out of the bathroom, he passes by the living room, and the TV is still on, playing at a quiet volume. Richard had been over hanging out with Flake and was still in the apartment by the time Paul had decided to sleep. Huh. He wonders if they’ve gone to bed already or if they went out for something. They could’ve at least turned the TV off. Briefly, he walks over and flicks it off before returning to his original course. 

Heading through the dark kitchen towards the balcony, he first registers that the light is left on out there, shining dimly through the open slats of the blinds. However, as he continues to approach, he sees the shapes of Richard and Flake, in direct contradiction to his previous thoughts a second before, and then he sees them together. He freezes. 

Richard’s hands holding Flake’s hips, Flakes arms draped around Richard’s neck, pressed closely together. The way that lovers would.

Woah. His stomach drops with the realization, and he freezes where he is, unsure what to do with himself. The initial reaction is to take a couple steps back, receding to obscure himself by hiding behind the counters, where the light outside does not reach inside but he can still see. Richard had been coming over quite a bit more than usual, earning Paul’s lighthearted barbs about being the unofficial third roommate, but this was not anything Paul had suspected or seen coming at all. Not that it put him off in any way, but simply nothing he’d never seen before and wasn’t expecting to see now.

When he gets over the initial shock and has an opportunity to start thinking, he debates leaving and staying. Rationally, he knows that this is something private, something he should not be watching. At the same time, he’s far too intrigued and curious to leave, a horrible flaw within himself of knowing where the boundaries are. He’s able to justify it to himself with the idea that as long as they don’t know he’s there and he never mentions it, then he sees no reason not to.

They hold each other close for the couple of minutes that Paul watches them. Vaguely, he can hear the alternating pitches between Flake and Richard, the low level of their voices as they exchange words between each other. Furrowing his brow, he tries to hear what’s being said, turning his head as if to bring his ear closer to the conversation, but cannot distinguish anything. Richard has his back turned to where Paul had moved to stand and watch in the kitchen, but he can clearly see Flake’s face, and there doesn’t seem to be any tension or anger or sadness on his features. Paul would dare say it’s the most relaxed he’s seen him, with a light smile dancing on his lips and heavy eyes, and it would be the most shocking thing he’s seen all night if they currently didn’t have their hands draped over the other. 

Eventually, their exchange slows into silence, and Paul wonders if that’s it, and begins to wonder if now would be a good time to leave before they come back inside and he gets caught spying on them. And then, he sees Flake’s hands unlatch from behind Richard’s neck, and they travel up to hold his face before he leans down, so slowly and sweetly, and presses their lips together. 

A warmth coils in his belly, and he’s captured by the sight of the way their lips move together. So tender in the way they move, so caring, the way you would kiss someone that you love. When words fail to explain what action compensates for. Richard’s arms pull Flake ever impossibly closer and the other man holds him by the back of his head, and they are spoken for their passion.

Paul is filled with the strangest feeling. What could only be described as longing, yearning, heartache, building into a tightness in his chest. Watching two men engage each other like this is foreign to him, something he’s never seen before but something that he recognizes with an odd sense of familiarity. Like experiencing déjà vu, or seeing a passing stranger that you swear you once knew but can’t place a name to. The kinds of phenomena that make you stop in your tracks and whip your head around looking for things you feel that you’ve missed.

It’s a bizarre thought but an ever so honest one; he wishes that instead of Richard, it were him. Standing there, tilting his head up to meet Flake’s lips, taking in his taste, his breath, his smell. Just to know what it would be like. Because in all of the times of being with a woman, kissing them, fucking them, it’s all just been experience thrown into a sinkhole that’ll never fill, and he’s never felt anything. Nothing, nothing at all, using them in pursuit of feeling something, but now he’s here, and he’s watching Richard and Flake, and it’s as though his heart is beating for the first time. As though he’s gasping in a breath after being under the surface of the water for so long, and he’s breathing, taking in lungfuls.

When they pull apart, Paul experiences a presence of mind, that any second now, they could be coming in. Turning on his heel, he treads lightly back to where he came from, hoping to leave unnoticed, and shuts his bedroom door behind him with the softest click he can manage. Paul presses his forehead against the cool wood and heaves a heavy breath as he tries to collect himself despite the image of his friends kissing on their balcony replaying in his mind. His heart is beating a fluttering rhythm that he can feel when he focuses into the veins in his neck and hands. 

He remembers that he was going to smoke, and he pats his pockets, pulling out his pack and lighter. If he thought he needed it before, he really needs it now. Turning from the door, he walks towards his window and opens it halfway, and then takes the time to light a cigarette. It’s a grounding action, and the first few pulls enable him to pull the frayed edges of himself back together as he thinks about the few minutes past. 

What was it about watching those two men kiss each other that made him feel in such a visceral way? Why does he feel like he could cry and laugh at the same time, with the way his chest is still tightened as though the air has been taken out of the room? What was it about the way their lips moved that intrigued him, drew him in, to where he couldn’t look away?

Why did it feel familiar?

If Paul’s being honest, and he’s not willing to do that a lot, being with a woman is something he’s never been able to turn into a genuine want and desire. Though not for a lack of trying. When he’d dated Yvonne in secondary because she’d asked him out and he’d saw no reason to say no, he’d felt nothing – kissing her, holding her, being with her, did not inspire any passion in him. Upon breaking up with her, he wondered if it was something that was missing in her that couldn’t make him stay, or if it was something missing in him, a quality that he lacked. A weakness, a flaw. Yet Yvonne had been a wonderful person – happy, caring, attentive. An ideal partner for anybody that would have her, but there was something that always held him back. An unseen, but very felt and near tangible division between himself and her. He cared so much for that woman, but he wasn’t attracted to her. He loved her, but he wasn’t in love. Paul did the right thing, he thinks, by letting her go, instead of keeping her in a relationship that he would be unable to fulfill her in – she deserved better than that.

The demise of that relationship, it turns out, had the common denominator that the rest of them had, and it seemed to be Paul’s hesitance, discomfort, and unnerve. When he’d found that being with someone in these tender and intimate ways perturbed him more than it was pleasant, he’d decided that perhaps he just wasn’t built to do things like that.

He resolved to himself before that perhaps that’s okay. Paul thought that perhaps that’s simply the way that it is for some people, unable to form those connections with others, and is neither something to be proud or ashamed of, but simply one of the many ways a person can naturally be. Yet it lingered, this thought that he’s broken in some way, that he should be able to do as others do, who find a partner to have and to keep. People are meant to love, supposed to love. One of the reasons people are made and Paul can’t even manage that, because there’s something within him that has held him back. Something in the way. Something he can’t get through. 

Though watching Richard and Flake, the way in which they moved together, and the response it evoked out of him, makes him feel as though he made a wrong conclusion. Because when he was there, he wanted what they had. Whatever it was. Though he doesn’t even know why. Was it because it was two men? Was that the appeal? It certainly looked… like something he could envision himself doing. As odd as that is to admit to himself. If he was given the opportunity, he certainly wouldn’t say no. Supposing he can’t really figure out women, it wouldn’t be a total loss to explore this further. He wouldn’t lose much if it turned out men didn’t do it for him either, considering his current low opinion of himself.

Just as he’s finishing up his cigarette does he hear the back door open and shut, and then the shuffle of two people in the hallway. There are murmured words passing between them, low and even, and then Paul hears Flake’s door open and close and it’s quiet once more. With nobody any the wiser. Well, maybe Paul. In a different way. After grinding up the cigarette in the ash tray, he takes a moment to just close his eyes. To breathe. And he closes the window.

Crawling back into bed, he lies on his side, and tucks the covers into the edges and corners of his body and begins to try and settle himself down to fall back asleep. He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to think anymore. That mere desire doesn’t keep him from doing so; he stares out into the darkness of his room, stares at the wall that separates him and Flake. And all of the thoughts he’d had moments before circulate over and over again, with no new insights into any of them. He only finds himself more lost – like struggling in the quicksand and sinking lower. The kind of fighting that makes things worse.

Exhaling heavily like he can breathe out his tensions, he tries to think of something else. But there’s nothing that he can find that could preoccupy him more than what currently is, and so he tries to reduce his mind to static, trying to think of nothing, and he falls asleep slowly, slowly, and then in one fell rush.

-

In the mid-afternoon, Flake tells Paul that he and Richard are going out for a few hours with the promise of a late evening return. Apparently, someone has thrown together an art gallery in Prenzlauer Berg that has caught their interest, though Paul hasn’t ever heard either of them express an interest in such a thing before. He does takes into account that when you’re in as boring a country as the DDR, you go to any source of entertainment that you find. Open air markets, shitty house parties, movies and documentaries you wouldn’t see if there were other options available. God knows how many people come to Feeling B shows just to give themselves something to do.

So he tells Flake to have a good time and to be careful, and then the other man is bounding out the door to meet Richard for their night out. Or well, yeah, it’s probably a date for both of them, considering he basically found out they’re an item a few days ago. Either way. Which leaves Paul alone in the apartment for a while.

He doesn’t feel any overwhelming urgency more than he feels a nervous anticipation, but he wastes no time in making the use of his privacy while he has it. Moving to his bedroom, he closes the door behind him and takes care to lock it, and crosses the room to draw the blinds and pull the curtains to obscure and darken the space as well. No interference, no interruptions. 

In the top drawer of his dresser at the foot of his bed, he finds the black square film box that’s been burning a hole in his conscience for the past few days. Courtesy of Till, who keeps a very illegal pornography collection of smuggled magazines from other countries and bootlegs of home-made tapes. Paul only knew about it because he heard Till talk about selling them on occasion for a few extra Marks, and decided that if there was anyone to go to for matters this salacious, it may very well be him. As awkward as it felt to approach Till and ask to let him borrow some materials, Till was very diplomatic and business-like and spread out his assortment on his bed and left the room to allow Paul to pick what he wanted judgement free. 

While he went into the situation with his expectations low of finding something that suited his interests, he found himself pleasantly surprised. In the pile of magazines he found three different selections of what were apparently catered towards men interested in men, all in languages he didn’t understand, settling for one written in French. The tapes didn’t present themselves as obviously, so he paid attention to the notes written on the yellow labels of the boxes to figure out content matter, and figured that the one single tape labeled _Schwule_ would be the best bet. So he tucked the two items into his messenger bag, and told Till that he’d have them back within a couple of weeks. 

Paul already has a projector bought to display scenes at their live shows stashed under his bed, and he retrieves it, setting it on the top of the dresser. He unravels the six-foot cord before moving to plug it into an outlet nearby. Pulling the reel out of the black box, he mounts the film on the spool, and performs the simple work of feeding the end of the film into the machine. It makes what he’s doing seem all the more real, and he really can’t believe he’s doing this, but he tries to rationalize this all to himself. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. The worst that happens is that he doesn’t like it, and the best that happens is he does. Giving himself perspective as such helps bring him problems to their proportionate size – things like this don’t have to be a big deal until one allows them to be. And Paul’s always had a problem with making mountains out of molehills. He huffs a breath, steels himself.

With that preparation made, he begins to set up the screen that he can project against. The best he can do for a screen is to use an off-white bedsheet, a corner stained with blood from an ill-timed nose bleed he’d had last year. He’d kept it because it was still functional, but did require digging in his closet to find where he’d tucked it away. For his purposes here, he is glad he spared it. Pulling his desk chair out, he stands on it as he tacks one corner, moves the chair and tacks the other, effectively covering his closet doors and posters. The cloth is pulled taut, so he won’t be projecting on wrinkles. Not bad, he thinks.

Crossing the room, he reaches the projector on his dresser, and he’s tired of all of the thinking and waiting, and even though he feels twisted up inside from the nerves, and his heart is in his throat, he hits the switches to start the spool moving. The machine begins to devour the film and starts to display what the box promised. Paul crawls onto his bed while the first few frames come into view.

When the image comes into view, he immediately notices that the tape is a bit grainy, perhaps on the edge of unfocused, and the colors are dull – it gives Paul the impression that this is a recording of a recording, but he won’t complain – but what is clear is the two men, sitting on the edge of a bed. They’re both already undressed, exposed to each other, though the way they are posed, turned into each other and hiking their legs up, conceals themselves from the camera for the time being. 

The film is soundless, so he sees instead of hears the man on the right begin to laugh, a wide smile playing over his features, which prompts the other man to smile along with him. Perhaps it’s the nervousness that the men are both experiencing in that moment, or a lingering joke that Paul will never know, but he hopes it’s because they’re happy. To be together, to be doing this. Being with someone you love and care for, one of life’s simplest but essential pleasures. Unconsciously, Paul grins himself in his vicarious joy.

The man on the left closes his eyes and leans in to kiss his partner who instantly leans into it, a single firm press of their lips together. They pull back briefly, to look at each other before they connect again, pursing their lips against each other while their hands venture to find places to touch and stroke over the face, shoulders, arms, hips. Those feelings he felt those few days before when he watched Richard and Flake kiss resurface, settling right in the center of his chest once again. That longing, that yearning, for the energy and lust that he can see between the subjects projected against the bedsheet. He gathers up the blanket next to him and holds it in his lap, just to give himself something to anchor himself to. 

Before long, the man on the right is gently pushed back to lie flat against the bed and the man on the left climbs on top of him, to slot between his legs. The man underneath wraps his legs around the waist above him like it’s a reflex, pulling his lover in closer, and they resume kissing, slow and sensual, careful and unhurried. It’s a sight that makes Paul’s belly spark with arousal, so inherently erotic even when it hasn’t transgressed into anything truly sexual yet. Seeing the way they move together, uncoordinated and yet so fluid, improvised but in tune, enraptures him in a way that even his own personal experiences can’t compare to. 

Even the way their faces twist and contort in their pleasure, the way their eyes always find the others’, and the subtle grins they offer each other whenever there’s a pause, surpasses the power of the rest of the physical pleasures; Paul leans in, so captivated and unable to look away. Already in the first five minutes of the film these strangers are showing more genuine feeling than Paul has given in his whole life. Quite like when he wished it was him kissing Flake, he wishes it was him there, experiencing those sensations, nurturing meaningful desire as they are. 

Paul watches as things progress between them, with the man on top beginning to stroke his partner’s cock in languid motions and then taking care of himself for a few moments to make sure they’re both ready for what promises to come next. Reaching off screen, likely to a nightstand, the man on the bottom retrieves a little bottle, and though the quality of the film isn’t high enough for him to see it happen clearly, he knows that he’s pouring something onto his fingers by the way he tips the container over. Then his hand reaches between his own legs and disappears where he can’t quite see, though Paul has the concept of what’s going on figured out. Their kissing is ceaseless, roaming from each other’s lips to the cheeks, to trail down to the neck, and against the collarbones, and they both seem so hungry for the touch of the other in any way they can receive it. It turns him on fiercely, and he can feel all the blood in his body rush down to his groin with an urgency.

Eventually, the foreplay and preparations conclude, and he sees the man on top grip his cock, and push himself in one smooth motion into his partner below him. He can see both of their faces weaken as they are overtaken in their pleasure. They don’t move immediately, instead taking the time to adjust to each other as they breathe and allow their hands to wander over each other’s flesh. Once he’s ready, the man on bottom nods, and in response, his lover above him starts to move, slowly, cautiously, with a measured and steady pace.

Then they’re moving faster, and it’s goes by so quickly – gritted teeth, hands clenching into bedsheets, arching backs and necks, unheard words passing between them, the rippling of thighs, fingers carding through his hair over and over again and uncounted kisses pressed to every available bit of skin they can find. Until they become shaky in their movements as the man above finishes with a few last, rough thrusts, and the other man follows shortly thereafter with a few pulls of his own hand, coming over his belly. It felt like seconds, when realistically, it lasted minutes. Paul is pulled back to reality when they part from each other with a lingering kiss, and the man on top rolls off his partner so they can turn to lie next to each other, side by side. The film ends with them holding each other, tangled arms and legs, face to face, silent, and content. And then nothing more.

When the film ends, he finds his breath taken away. It’s just sex, the way that everyone else does it, but to Paul, it’s so different. It has meaning, and it strikes him in a different way. 

He’s almost jealous, he’s almost angry. Where has this been? Why has he never felt this before? Why has it taken him so long, feeling so lost? So long, thinking of himself as broken, unable to love the way other people should, and all of that wasted time, the wasted hours of misery and doubt, the damage inflicted on his psyche and his soul. 

There is elation there though, because he feels like he’s finally being found. He’s finally, finally, being found. Being found as a person he didn’t know he could be. He was never broken. He was just lost. Waking up for the first time, experiencing what had been missing, and it’s a promised land that he never thought he’d see and he’s seeing it now, clearer than anything ever before. 

Tears pool in his eyes even though they don’t flow over, and he can’t help but burst out in a laugh, and he’s happy. Confused, but happy. Bringing up the blanket in his lap to dab at the corners of his eyes, he tries to breathe, to just breathe. And he reaches over to rewind the film and watch it again.

-

The arrest Richard experiences in October thoroughly rattles him. Upon his release, he makes it straightaway to Flake and Paul’s apartment to tell them what had happened. While Flake and Paul figured that Richard had been busy or preoccupied for that week and had otherwise no reason to be alarmed, they are thoroughly horrified to learn that he was in the custody of the Stasi. After he had gotten mixed up in a political demonstration that was happening right as he was getting off to his station in the U-Bahn, he got taken in.

During those six days that he was gone, they needled him over and over about his involvement with the Neues Forum, the emerging political party he’d not even heard about until his interrogations. But because Richard didn’t tell them anything they wanted to hear, he was subjected to standing for countless hours, hands pressed flat against the concrete wall in front of him. More than once, for the perceived transgressions of shifting his stance, scratching his face, or turning his head, the guards behind him would strike him over the head with their batons. Reprieve came when he was allowed to sleep, in the latest hours of the night, where he was ordered to sleep flat on his back, hands outside the blanket, or else there would be consequences. Sleep was not allowed for long, when he was told to come for questioning again or to return to stand on that wall. 

Richard looks like he’s been through hell and back. Dirt is visible on himself and his clothes, his eyes are ringed purple with the weight of his fatigue, and he is missing ten pounds. Paul and Flake fuss over him, feed him what they keep in their cupboards, allow him to sleep for as long as he wants, offer him the hot water for the shower. But there is nothing they can do to mend the spirit that the Stasi had broken in him. 

When Richard escapes, he leaves a single piece of paper stuck in the crack of Flake and Paul’s apartment door. _“I love you all. See you later.”_

While the note doesn’t offer answers, everybody knows. The vagueness is purposeful; Richard doesn’t want the Stasi to come after him, and he doesn’t want them to come after his friends if they decide to look into his disappearance. Wherever he’s gone, Paul just hopes that he’s somewhere safe, and that maybe, like the note says, he really can see him again someday.

Flake seems to take Richard’s departure well enough, even though he clearly does miss him just as everyone else does. Paul noticed that a month before, Richard stopped coming over as often, and Flake would mention spending time with other people instead of him as well. While he won’t ask because he figures they wanted to be private, and he was likely never supposed to know to begin with, he is under the impression that their relationship had come to an end. Though when they were together in the same room, he saw no difference in the way they treated each other. Maybe things are for the best that way – so Richard didn’t have to leave while still with Flake.

Now that it’s just the two of them, Paul and Flake spend more time together outside of Feeling B, whether it’s sitting at home and watching TV, organizing card games with other friends, going on long car trips to go see how much trouble they can stir up, breaking into Till’s house and harassing him to make food. There’s almost a type of magic of that particular autumn; it has a real heartbeat, a pulse, filled with so much laughter and pleasure and deep conversations and the wild exuberant screams of his friends as they chase each other down the streets. 

The lines between heaven and earth become blurred, and he’s not sure what the difference is anymore. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be, nothing else he’d rather do. There’s nobody else he’d rather keep in his company, either, with Flake by his side, always there to offer an opinion, advice, a philosophy, and he values him in the way that he knows Flake values him too. He likes him, a whole lot, probably the most he’s ever liked another person before. Paul wishes he could freeze this time, hold these moments for longer. Wishes he could stop the sun going down on each day, could stop his friends growing older and keep them together in this life they’ve all created for themselves. It’s something he tries hard not to think about, instead trying to focus on the sensations of every experience. So he tries to live the best that he can, because that’s what he knows he can do.

On a colder night, on the beaches of Hiddensee, the radio plays old songs while they sit around a bonfire, drinking and talking. After being out for hours, things begin to wind down. Tatjana and Till sit on a blanket next to the fire, talking animatedly about the worst jobs they’ve ever worked in. Christoph and Aljoscha mingle with other acquaintances out by the water’s edge. Flake and Paul sit on the trunk of someone’s car, keeping themselves out of the sand and on solid ground, talking between themselves about their favorite types of tea and the perfect balances of milk and sugar and honey. While it’s pointless, simple conversation, it’s engaging enough for them.

“I’m getting tired,” Paul mumbles when the conversation reaches a natural stopping point, scratching at the corner of his eye. 

“God, me too,” Flake tells him, and he brings the lip of his first and only beer bottle of the night to his mouth and finishes it off with a tip of his head. “I like hanging out but it’s busy work. Always gotta be like, amiable all the time, and you’re always moving and doing shit. But it’s nice.”

Smirking, Paul jabs him in the side with an elbow and Flake flinches away. “You could bitch and moan about anything, Flake.” 

“Thanks, it’s a skill,” he replies wryly, bringing a hand up to touch at his ribs.

Slipping off the trunk of the car to stand, Paul reaches his arms out to stretch towards the stars, his shoulder and spine popping. The night is beautiful, the waning moon overhead, and the stars in their abundance twinkling like the blinking eyes of angels. Though he’s had his fill of it all, and the desire to sleep pulls at him more than anything else. “I’m gonna be going to the tent if you wanna join me,” he says, looking upwards to the younger man.

Without any hesitation, following suit, Flake stands as well. For a moment, he’s unbalanced, waving his arms to stabilize himself again, and Paul knows he’s never really held his drink that well in the first place, even if it’s just one drink. Reaching behind him, Flake dusts off the back of his jeans. “Yeah, I’ll just come with you,” he says passively. 

They step into the sand again, cold against their skin, and start to approach where their tent is set up for the night, one out of seven. People are still preoccupied with themselves, running and hollering at the shore, chattering and laughing at the fire, and so Paul doesn’t offer any parting gestures or words. He doesn’t need to bother them, and they all got enough of each other during the length of the day. Going directly to his tent, he wipes off his feet with a towel hanging inside and then crawls in after passing the cloth off the Flake to do the same. The mouth of the tent gets zipped closed and they start to settle in. 

Flake supplied the bedding for the night with the agreement that they’d both share, and so they do. Paul takes the right side, and Flake takes the left, bundling themselves underneath the breadth of the sleeping bag. Their legs knock together as they adjust in finding a comfortable position, writhing and turning, and when they settle they end up face to face with each other. Paul thinks it’s a little humorous, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead he tries to close his eyes, with the whoosh of the younger man’s breath ghosting over his cheek.

Sleep does not come easily to either of them, owing to the chill of the night that stings their bones. Nothing much can be done about that; an irritating but unavoidable aspect of camping in October. The man next to him intermittently shivers, and he is in about the same shape. After a few minutes of trying to ease themselves into rest, the older man snaps his eyes open and voices what they’re both thinking: “I feel like I’m gonna freeze to death.”

“Fuck,” Flake groans, sighing deeply. Lamenting, he continues. “Yeah, I didn’t think it would get this cold tonight. It was so much warmer yesterday.” 

“I’m just hoping that maybe our breath will heat up the tent or something,” Paul mumbles, curling the portion of blanket he has into his chest, looking for a reprieve in any way he can find it. 

“Wanna cuddle in the meantime?” Flake says, so flatly, so casually, so easily, that it takes Paul aback. 

Quirking an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes, he challenges him. He wants to see how serious he is, how far he’ll go. Flake enjoys taking the piss out of people, pushing buttons, and he can’t tell if that’s the case right now. “You’re for real? Cause I totally will.”

“Sure, why not?” the younger man replies shrugging one shoulder, and his tone hasn’t shifted from his initial proposition. 

Paul thought he was being facetious the whole time, but he thinks now that he never was in the first place. The prospect of cuddling with Flake isn’t an intolerable one, and he’s certainly someone he would be comfortable enough to do so with, though it does feel daunting. While he did recently resolve to himself that he’s likely queer, more or less, it’s still a bit intimidating to follow through on it and actually, well, act in such a manner. The opportunity to hold another man hasn’t arose until this very moment, and it’s with his friend of all people. Which adds a bit to his hesitations, because as far as Flake knows, he’s straight.

Despite his hold-ups, it seems like there’s no time like the present, he thinks to himself. Here’s an opportunity right in front of him. Now or never. A follow-through on what he’s been thinking and feeling for the past couple of months. It doesn’t have to mean anything, just innocent affection between friends while serving its purpose in its utility both in the physical and emotional sense. Flake offered, so he might as well accept. 

Wordlessly, he scooches closer to Flake, and the other man does the same. Bodies start moving to accommodate the other; Flake’s arm reaches to wrap around the other man’s waist, their legs tangle into a satisfactory arrangement, and Paul’s head ends up pressed into Flake’s chest, tucked right under his chin, resting a hand over his sharp collarbone. It comes together so easily, effortlessly, as though they’ve been doing this for years, pieces snapping into place into a perfect fit. They’re both comfortable, and at ease under each other’s hold, allowing themselves to be the most vulnerable one can be only for each other.

Warmth soon spreads between them, and it’s helping, to pass the heat back and forth between them. Building temperature under the blanket really alleviates the bite of the cold. The bitter sting against his cheeks lessens and becomes bearable, and pressing his feet against Flake’s calves helps him feel them again. Flake breaks the silence, muttering with sleep thick in his voice, “This is better.” The older man hums lowly in agreement and then there is only quiet. 

All of the fears that Paul held before melt away, replaced with calm, with contentment. Being held like this, and holding another in return, and feeling sheltered, feeling taken, is what he’s been wanting for so long, and for some reason, he experiences it so overwhelmingly now. How can he maintain that worry with Flake’s arm wrapped tightly around his middle, pulling him in closer, with the sound of his heartbeat underneath his ear, ticking away a gentle rhythm? He remembers when he saw Flake kiss Richard, how badly he’d wanted that, and he has a form of it now, and it fulfills him in the ways he’s been searching for so long. 

As he falls asleep, he senses the rest of the world fading away, centering in on their embrace, the way they are entwined with each other, flesh to flesh, bared soul to soul.

-

Neither of them read the newspaper, which is why it surprises Paul to see that his roommate has invested himself into one of the local periodicals, sitting at the kitchen table leaning over it intently and studying the page. Eyes scanning over the words, Flake sips at a cup of Earl Grey, with no milk but plenty sugar. The older man wonders what has him so intrigued. Ever nosey, he looks over Flake’s shoulder to see what’s got him so interested. Emblazoned on top of the page is the word _entertainment._

“What’re you reading?” he questions him as he turns to make himself a cup of tea as well, jasmine with plenty of milk and a dash of honey, to start his day.

“There’s a movie that’s premiering in a few days that I was interested in,” Flake says simply, and his tone almost suggests that he’s not keen on explaining much further, but Paul disregards it as Flake possibly being in a bad mood or too deep in concentration. After pouring the water into the kettle from the sink, he turns the stove on and goes back over to inspect the text more closely to see what he’s missing.

“Which movie?” he presses him, skimming over the words that he focuses on. 

“Um, well,” Flake hems and haws, “I just heard about it and it sounded like it could be good,” he prefaces and it misses answering the question entirely. Though he finally does answer by pointing to the section he’s reading and then passing the whole paper off to the older man so that Paul can see for himself. 

The title is in English, _Coming Out,_ being released at Kino International in three days, November 9th. When he begins to read the description, he’s frankly stunned: the first ever movie about homosexuality made by Deutsche Film-Aktiengesellschaft. He reads the premise, about how a guy deals with being honest with himself about his sexuality, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t resonate within him, just as he imagines it probably does with Flake.

The timing seems so oddly perfect, that it would come up in his life at this juncture, almost like some strange form of divine intervention if such a thing were to exist. It suggests something to him, not only as an opportunity to delve further in this new foreign aspect of his life, but that perhaps this could be a way for him to approach Flake with what he’s been dealing with. Maybe he knows more about what it’s like being this way, because Paul hasn’t known how to start, who and where to reach out to so he can ask questions, understand this better. Though he knows that Flake has likely been through the same thing, there’s irrational thoughts that prevent him from being forthcoming. That speaking this into existence will cause more harm than good. Fear of what others around him will think, fear that he’ll be treated differently. After all, why hasn’t Flake told even him, when they both consider the other the closest thing to a brother? Because he fears the same?

Then he considers: how long is he going to allow fear to control him? A year? Forever? The longer he denies being truthful with himself prolongs the confusion and unrest that he feels clench around his heart every day, watching everyone else find happiness while he waits for a convenient time to find his. 

Life isn’t convenient. It hurts like hell. Like broken bones. But the healing of the fractures thereafter are supposed to make you stronger. 

Handing the newspaper back to the younger man, he beams. “Sounds cool! Let’s go see it. I’m not doing anything Thursday.” Every word is forced out, but he means it. He’s determined. Paul is too goddamn stubborn to keep himself downcast for longer than he needs to. He’s spent his whole life treading water to keep his head above the surface, living nearly homeless, bending scrap metal into jewelry to sell, putting all the time and effort into the band to make it succeed, and he resolves to himself that he’s not going to allow himself to sink over something like this. 

“Really?” Flake says with a small grin, sounding a bit incredulous but at the same time pleased. “You’d wanna go?” 

“I mean, yeah. Bet it’s more interesting than the rest of the dreck that’s been out recently,” Paul explains, trying to sound casual even though he’s actually very interested, more than any other regular person should be.

Adjusting his glasses, Flake nods, eyes a little bit wide like he wasn’t expecting things to go this way, but hey, Paul’s full of surprises, and looks back down at the periodical. “Okay, cool. It’s a date.”

-

On November 9th, at around six thirty in the afternoon, Paul and Flake get off the S-Bahn, and they begin the ten-minute walk from the stop to the theatre. The sun has already bid it’s adieu to the day, disappeared over the horizon, but its luminance still paints the sky in warm orange and gold.

An issue when walking with Flake, Paul has found, is that because of their severe height differential, their natural walking speed is different, the younger man faster, the older man slower. Their eternal struggle is to stay together, without going ahead or lagging behind. The disappointments of being the shortest person in the friend group paired with the tallest person in the friend group. When Paul notices that Flake keeps having to slow down to accommodate him, Paul reaches up, and links his arm with Flake’s.

“What’re you doing that for?” the taller man says, looking down to Paul, then towards their connection, but doesn’t make any attempt to pull away. Not that he thought he would.

“Slow down, man. I’m short, I don’t go as fast,” Paul explains with a playful whine, curling his hand up to grip at his skinny bicep and giving it a squeeze.

“Have you tried growing a few more centimeters?” Flake prompts in return, sounding so serious and deadpan as though it would be a viable option for Paul to explore in his future.

He rolls his eyes and smiles sardonically. Paul can’t think of a good comeback, so he giggles out a good natured “Fuck you.” When he looks up to the taller man, he can see a grin he’s trying to stifle tugging at his lips. He’s always thought so, but thinks then, that he’s truly lucky to have Flake around as a friend. How funny he is, how affable, intelligent, dependable, likeminded. He’s never been good with counting his blessings, but when he does, he always remembers how Flake is one of them. 

Taking in his surroundings, he finds the sky much more interesting than any of the sterile old buildings that line the streets. It’s one of the most genuine and lovely things about the city, something not even inherent to it at all, something that Paul finds a little humorous. It belongs everywhere, goes everywhere, without limitation, but then and there, he can’t help but notice it in a way that he’s never paid attention to before. “Look how bright and vivid those colors are,” Paul comments, eyes tracing where the colors start and end. 

“Pretty,” Flake replies simply, moving his unoccupied arm to tuck his hand into his pocket absentmindedly as he paces along. “By the time we get out of the movie it’ll be pitch black. It always throws me off when that happens, ya know? When you go in somewhere when it’s day and come out when it’s night.”

Smirking a little, Paul nods. “Feels like time travel almost.” When he looks up at Flake once more, he sees him grin, but doesn’t say anything else.

Upon arrival, Flake and Paul see a crowd standing on the street of Karl-Mark-Allee, chattering in small groups, smoking, shifting from foot to foot with their impatience. From the looks of the crowd, Paul sees that the people assembled are the same as him and Flake, just a bunch of bored young guys. However, it’s not missed by Paul that he can see some of them paired together, holding hands and waists. Which makes sense to him considering; he finds his gaze lingering on those that he can find, interested by seeing something like this for the first time in person. Really in person, instead of watching through a window from a kitchen in secret. Then he remembers that he has been linked to Flake by the arm for the last few minutes. He doesn’t let him go until they need to separate to enter through the glass doors. Let them make assumptions. Whatever those may be.

Like the street, they find the foyer packed. As they both make their way towards counter, every step has to be carefully planned and coordinated to avoid walking into another person standing around, a moving maze. They apparently have made it in good time, with their tickets being some of the last few available for the night, with the massive gathering in and around the building, as well as the people that wait behind them that have showed. They don’t doubt that as the truth. 

With a few minutes to wait until the doors to the auditorium open, they find a wall and press their backs against it. For a while, they take the time to people-watch. Vibrant people, with brilliant smiles and bright laughter, almost taking on the atmosphere of a celebration. Friends rushing to join friends, drinking beer from glass bottles, loud conversation. For some of these people it probably is. Paul looks at it a different way. With the sharp attention one would owe a school lesson, the reverence one would owe a church service, the relief of coming home after having been away for so long. Here, amongst others who are like them. 

“Paul?” Flake addresses him, looking down towards him, and Paul meets his eyes, unable to miss how soft and round they look, vulnerable, and waits for him to continue. “Can I just ask, why did you come here with me tonight?”

Though Paul’s never been above lying, he can’t make himself do it in that moment. Being truthful is a lot harder. But he’s here, in this theatre, and he’ll be damned if the person at the ticket counter doesn’t know, if the people around them don’t know, and if Flake doesn’t know. He must. But he must want to hear it too. To be sure, to be in on it. Sure. For him, he’ll try. That’s not too much to ask. 

Plucking together his language, assembling the words as his heart crawls up into his throat, he says it. Out with it then, out. “Because I wanted to.”

“You wanted to?”

“Yes,” Paul continues. “Um,” he falters, clears his throat. “Yeah, I um. I think I’m gay?” He’s never actually said those words out loud before. Thought them plenty, but spoken, never. Though if there was a time, a place, he decides, it’s here, it’s now. “Been thinking about it for the past couple months and uh. Yeah.”

Hardly surprised by this, Flake nods solemnly. “I figured.”

“Yeah?”

“Well you never go out with chicks and Tatjana told me and Till how she tried to hook up with you and you turned her down hard. So,” Flake explains with a shrug. Well, he wasn’t expecting for him to take it bad in any way, but he’s glad that Flake is keeping it so casual, not making a big deal out of it. Like they’re talking about the weather, instead of a massive identity undertaking. Okay then. Easy enough. The tension in him dissipates to something more tolerable and he decides it’s his turn. 

“You are too, huh?” Paul prods.

“What gave me away?” Flake purses his lips, fighting the smirk that threatens to come over his features.

“Your same general fear of women and the fact that I knew you and Richard were a thing,” Paul tells him, but doesn’t want to let him know about what he saw on the balcony that one night. He leaves it at that, and Flake seems to accept it.

“Damn. And here I thought I had invented subtlety,” Flake jokes, and they both laugh and any nerves built up in both of them fade away, because they’re the same. For reasons unknown, perhaps in comfort, in solidarity, Flake’s hand starts to edge into his, curling down around his palm. Paul lets him, he welcomes it, wants it, allowing their fingers to lock into each other, and hold hands. Paul feels like nothing can hurt him, not when they’re together. Safe. His heart flickers in his chest, and he leans his head against Flake’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Content. 

Eventually, the doors to the auditorium are thrown open, and the scores of people drift like moths to lights to enter. Paul and Flake don’t break their hold on each other as they make their way, some of the first few attendees inside, and they take a row towards the back. The seats gradually fill around them, and it must take about twenty minutes before everyone is settled, and five minutes after that to start to dim the lights and roll trailers. Still they hold each other’s hands, and Paul won’t let go, not when he doesn’t need to, not when he’s been starved of this for so long and it grounds him and comforts him the way it does. Ever so slightly, he tightens his grip; Flake does the same. 

As the film plays, Paul gets the overwhelming notion that being here is less about the movie. It’s more about being present in mind and body. Picking up on the pulse of the room, of all the people around them that have probably lived through the exact things the protagonist is. Relating and confronting. Acknowledging and internalizing. 

The movie takes them through this man’s life. Meeting a woman and marrying her, having a child with her, because that’s what he feels he’s supposed to do. Meeting a man and having an affair because that’s who he actually is. Disappointing them both, losing them both, and ending up alone. Alone, but a better man, one that knows who he is more without continuing to perpetuate misery in his own life. The push and pull of identity, of societal expectation, of honesty to oneself and to others. He hears the audience laugh, whistle, and cry, and it’s so impactful in its weight and meaning that when it ends, everyone rallies for it to be shown again, a second time, and the theatre obliges.

God knows Paul has felt the same, done the same. Been with women for the sake of having someone even if he always had the innate sense that he’d rather be doing anything else. Trying to compel himself to feel the way others were supposed to and ending up hurting himself in the process. All of the people he’d been with, tried to make himself feel anything, anything, and for nothing. Only for him to find out that no amount of struggling would change the way he felt. Cause he was never built for it. He was built for another type of love. The type he saw on that balcony, on that film reel in his bedroom, in the tent on the beach, and now, as he sweeps his thumb over the back of Flake’s hand. And it comes so easily, without compromises, without force. When the movie ends for the second time, he looks at his friend, and things are good. 

They part for the first time since going into the auditorium when they end up back onto the street in the frigid air, hands shaking with the cold as they reach for cigarettes and light them. It’s very late, a little after ten, and it’s odd, that the first thing they see is an endless line of cars parked, not moving, on the road. They both mutually agree that it’s likely not the audience that just left the premiere, as most of the attendees still stay to linger for the after party and it would be much too soon for people to have already gunned it out of there. Must be an accident up the road, Flake suggests, and Paul agrees.

“But what did you think of the movie?” Paul asks before he takes a long drag of his cigarette, deprived after so many hours inside.

“I enjoyed it. It had a pretty narrow view of what it’s like, to, you know. But I think it definitely made it’s point and did it well,” Flake answers. Knowing him, Paul knows that this is the equivalent of a glowing review.

“Yeah. How did you figure it out?” Paul pries, genuinely curious, and the taller man shrugs, tilts his head.

“Just did, I guess. Pretty sure I was sixteen when I realized I liked being around guys better. I understand them more than I’ve ever understood women. Just made sense somehow.” It’s a vague answer to anyone else, but to someone else who gets it, it’s clear. It’s just something that can’t be described with words. Like trying to explain the concept of color or beauty to a blind person who has never seen before. It’s more of an inkling. An instinct.

“I think I’m kinda the same,” Paul agrees. “Except it took me way too long to figure out that I didn’t have to make myself like chicks. Like, this autumn too long.”

“Life doesn’t have deadlines. Things happen when they do for a reason, I think,” Flake suggests, and it’s the most philosophical and idealistic he’s ever heard such a usually realistic and rational man get. It’s a nice change of pace.

“You really think that?”

“I do.”

They decide their night must come to an end. Grinding their cigarettes under their heels, they begin to think about heading home. Tomorrow is supposed to be a band rehearsal with Aljoscha and Christoph for the gig they have on Monday in Schwerin. They both disagree they need it, but Aljoscha wants it to happen, and so it will. Won’t hurt to do so, and the possible benefits include dinner and beer on his dime, so they hardly argue.

Out of nowhere, a rush of people come out of the theatre behind them, bursting through the glass doors like a flood, and the sound and the swarm alarms them so that they jump, and the people in the vicinity around them do as well. They all look frenzied, as though they’re holding in so much energy it would burst them at the seams, yelling and laughing and screaming in mixtures of feelings that Paul can’t gauge. They have to step into the street to avoid being pushed over by the crowd, and Flake mutters under his breath about what their deal is. 

One woman turns to those standing around on the street and yells at the top of her lungs, and maybe this is her letting out an entire life’s worth of desperation when she screams. “Everyone! The border is open! The border is _open!”_ A scream of rapture, of freedom.

Their jaws drop open. What border? The border, like the Berlin Wall border? She’s saying the border is open? The crowd runs, ostensibly toward the Wall, with everyone left behind gobsmacked. Flake and Paul look towards each other, confused and unsure about what to make of it.

“No fucking way,” Paul says, flicking his eyes to look at the retreating crowd. There’s no way. They must’ve gotten some junk information. A mistake of some sort. A rumor spun out of control. The people around them murmur worriedly, excitedly, about the news, but nobody seems to know what to do. If there is anything to do. No, there’s nothing to do, because this isn’t actually happening. Not until he can hear it and believe it.

“There’s no fucking way,” Paul iterates again, and he thinks about the cars that haven’t moved an inch since coming outside. Going, just like the crowd, towards the direction of the Wall. It occurs to him that maybe, maybe this has something to do with it.

Unable to stop himself, Paul darts into the street, leaving Flake bewildered and stunned in front of the theatre, and goes towards the first car he can see, tapping on the driver’s side window. The middle-aged man in the driver’s seat looks startled, and who wouldn’t be, with a stranger tapping on their window. But the man obliges him, rolls down the glass, and begins to greet Paul before he’s cut off. Without wasting any time, Paul promptly needles him. 

“Are you going towards the Wall? Is it true that the border is open?” He’s panicked. Scared. Unsure. He doesn’t know what. This is not happening. 

“Yeah!” the man says, nodding, beaming. “I saw it on the TV, and got in my car, and they’re saying it again on the radio. Everyone’s going to see if they can cross over!”

Without another word, he leaves the man in his car, and goes back to Flake, who is as still as the dead, waiting for what Paul has to say. Though the absolute stricken look on Paul’s face gives him his answer. That this seems to be real. It’s been up for as long as they’ve been alive and it’s likely going to be coming down. He never thought this would ever happen. Not in his lifetime, nor anyone’s.

The ever present force in their life, the defining mark of their country, and it seems like just one event in what promises to bring down other things with it. It feels like the beginning of an end if there could be a single event to mark it. Paul lived in a world where he didn’t think about politics, where being a citizen of his country was simply a given. Where he was fine with his lot in life, fine with the way things were. Where you got what you got and you made the best of it. Things weren’t perfect, but they were predictable, dependable, consistent. He knows how to live in this world, the one where the Wall is closed. And now, now he doesn’t know what’ll happen next. Where things will go from here. What follows. 

Gripping his friend by the arms, he looks up at him, wild eyed and frantic. “Flake, what do we do?” He doesn’t know what to do. Maybe Flake knows. Flake could think of something.

“I don’t know,” the man says simply, because he doesn’t. But he doesn’t blame him as much as he wishes he could. There’s no protocol for this. They never thought this would happen. They never thought of a day where this could become reality.

Wordlessly, Paul moves to wrap his arms around Flake’s middle, and Flake receives him, holding him around his shoulders. Any boundaries between them are gone for now, when they need each other most. When they need to feel connected with something grounded in reality, instead of this bizarre abstraction. 

“Flake, I’m scared,” Paul whispers into Flake’s chest.

“Me too,” Flake tells him, breathing the words into the crown of Paul’s head. 

Everything feels as though it’s coming to an end. In a sense, it is. Paul wants no more of it. He doesn’t want to be a part of it. If only he’d have seen this coming, so they wouldn’t have to be here, and face this. They could’ve stayed home and dealt cards and played gin rummy and lived in that blissful ignorance until the morning came. They could’ve held their lives the way they were for a little while longer instead of watching it crumble here on the streets of Berlin.

In a time where Paul feels like everything is being taken away from him, he realizes there’s one thing that won’t be, and he’s holding him, and he’s being held by him, and that won’t change. Flake has always been there when he’s needed him, faithful to those he loves, and Paul feels it so deeply then as the taller man runs his hands through his long blonde hair. Because he feels it too. He loves Flake, in a way that he can’t define, but he does. They’ve always only had each other, and it’s something that he feels in his bones, to the marrow in his bones. 

“Can I ask you a favor, considering?” Paul asks, emboldened and electrified by all of the things he feels.

“Anything.”

“The world is ending, so I may very well. Kiss me?” Paul asks, and he’d never be so confident, but he’s not going to allow everything to fall apart around him without doing all of the things he’s been held back from wanting to do. Without knowing what it’s like to be with someone that you trust, that you care for and love, in the most genuinely and deep of ways he ever has before. 

Without an answer, without a question, Flake leans down, places a hand against Paul’s cheek to lift his head up and press their lips together.

Affection blooms in his belly and his heart, spreading all throughout his body, ebbing and flowing. He’s never known pleasure as this, in its sincerest form, a very natural thing. 

Flake’s lips purse against his, and he reciprocates, pushing into it, wrapping his arms around his neck and it’s like medicine. Healing all of the pain, erasing the distress, replacing it with certainty, what he’s been craving for so long. This is certain: the soft texture of the other man’s mouth, the hot breath they pass between them, the hands that pull him in closer and closer. Blood rushes through his ears, like the whoosh of the ocean, overpowering the sounds of the people around him, of the feelings that threaten to smother him, and he begins to feel peace. The world is ending, and they’re choosing each other over what they fear. 

Their slow back and forth eventually tapers off, and they stop. For a moment, they press their foreheads together and catch their breath. When they finally part, Paul looks up towards him. The only thing that matters now. One of the few things that has ever mattered. Holding each other together while everything else falls apart.

“I want to go home,” Paul says. “Let’s go home. Let’s just go home and pretend this isn’t happening, okay? Just for the night. Just for the night.”

The other man seems to agree. Leaning down to press one final kiss against Paul’s lips he murmurs “Okay. Lets go home,” and he leads them both away by the hand, away from where the Wall is coming down, away from the people running towards it. They cross the street, weaving in between the cars that still haven’t moved. The screams and laughter and crying of the people fade behind them. Until they are alone, alone, in this world they aren’t sure they know anymore. 

But they have each other for right now, this they know, and that’s all they need.

**Author's Note:**

> For some events in the story: In the 1988 Seoul South Korea Summer Olympics, East Germany participated in the women’s gymnastics, and won a silver in the uneven bars, and a bronze in the team all around. 
> 
> Pornography was illegal in East Germany under penalty of imprisonment, but was known to be smuggled into the country or produced within the country itself - which is what Paul sees.
> 
> East Germany didn't release VCR's (so no VHS tapes) until September of 1989, so what Paul uses instead is a projector, with a film reel. That was very common of the time. Many film reels were soundless, such as the one here.
> 
> The film Paul and Flake go see is called "Coming Out," and had its premiere in Berlin, on November 9th, 1989. The very same night that the Berlin Wall came down.
> 
> Please feel free to leave comment I love hearing from you guys ;_; muah!


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